Poems by K K Srivastava
Wait in an Unvisited Room
(For . . . .)
This is the room I have been in,
for thousands of years, imprisoned,
doors locked-I stay alone,
the clock on the wall- rusty, wonky,
memories collude,
halting kisses recall the night.
Captured- I go near
finding none of me there-
an aloneness or a loneliness?
You come;
telling me-you are not alone.
Am I not with you, always, feel me,
I am in your thoughts, your memories,
Go there, time and again, I wait for you there-
but go alone; I love your lonesomeness-
it is inscrutable, I love your inscrutability:
it gives me to me.
This room is a jungle:
of shadows divorced from their oneness
time ticks away; rusty clock, that mirror in it;
so many mirrors within a mirror,
look at me with eyes stony, mummified-
now only emptiness accompanies these eyes.
You-a verity- emerge;
telling- fill your emptiness with me, absorb me,
there is always darkness before dawn;
love darkness-be a part of it-let it be part of you,
let darkness suck you.
You-whispering into my ears-
I am there in my new avatar,
my lips drop wine for you; I: nonplussed-
my thirst for wine was quenched long back;
dry lips but quenching.
I don’t need wine
these lips no longer sate me.
You tell-look into my eyes-talk to me-
I will meet you there
through my eyes;
pleasures become curse;
my momentariness pulls me apart;
the room gets cramped and more cramped;
walls get skewer.
Compressing me;
an old pang
stays anew; with you or without-
thinness of time cuts across my melancholic torpor
I want to wake up.
Celestial door-ajar;
you are there; and you entreat don’t go, sleep, I will lull you further;
don’t leave me; you know I also wait for you, unconfessedly,
see through me, know me, don’t go out-for I will become alone.
That rusty, unstoppable clock,
time ticks away- a sense of indifference-
I get my freedom: life breathes within me.
You a puzzle,
another piece of jeweled- self,
set riddles-
that sit down, awaken,
beside me.
Time held aloft,
One day, in this very room,
I would become a stranger to myself,
painting on halved blankness.
Dedicated to poet “Pash” and his poem-“Aab Vida Leta Hoon.’
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- K. Srivastava is a poet and reviewer living in India. His fourth book-Diary is expected to be out next year.
